The Song of Angry Men
by WriteToLive
Summary: Valjean finds Javert after his attempted suicide. While he may never find the truth of what happened that night, he can't stop himself looking.
1. Chapter 1

The floorboards of the hospital are scrubbed smooth, the varnish long since sanded to dust by feet, and iron bedsteads. They are almost white, soft with age, and Valjean feels his uneven gait absorbed into them, as if printing himself on their grain. This ward is full, but quiet; the coughs of the consumptives can be heard at a distance, not loud enough to penetrate the stillness here. He looks at each face he passes, giving them equal weight, and each a silent prayer for deliverance. They lie as if already dead, their faces pallid, with torpid limbs covered by un-creased sheets. He can see them breathing, but in one or two he has to search for it. He recognises no one by sight, but the physician he is following does not hesitate, and leads him to the end of the ward.

'Here,' he says, dispassionately. 'The one you seek.'

'Thank you, monsieur.' He presses a coin to his palm. 'For your trouble.'

The doctor hesitates, but does not refuse it. 'Are you responsible?'

'For his injuries?'

'…no monsieur, I would never suggest such a thing. For him.'

'Oh!' Valjean smiles, though it's weak, and shakes his head. 'No, not at all. He is merely a…an acquaintance, I suppose you would say.'

The doctor sighs, more impatient than disappointed, though it's laced with that too. 'There seems to be no one. No matter. He will never leave.' He turns and walks away without adding more, and Valjean is left alone, the only truly living man in the room.

For a long time, he simply stands and listens to the quiet breathing from the beds around him. The smell of the place – vomit, blood, piss, an underlay of creosote solution – has been with him since he entered the hospital, and is no stronger here than elsewhere. There is a window on the wall just above his head, and while it is tightly fastened, blue sky can be seen. He watches the light until a bird flies across, and breaks his reverie. Then he sighs too, and pulls a wooden chair to the side of the bed. There is no need to speak, because there is no one with enough life left to hear. And yet, the body in front of him compels it. Deserves more than his silence, after all this time.

Valjean looks him up and down, from the unnatural shape of the splints under the sheets, to the wrappings visible under the collar of his nightshirt. There is sweat on his forehead, and his whiskers have grown untidy. They stand out black against the sickly grey of his skin.

'Javert-' he does not know what he can say. He does not know what happened, and it looks very much as though he will never find out. So he falters. But then leans forward, and drops his tone, as if someone could be listening. '-if I freed you to meet this end, I am sorry.'

There is no response. Of course, there would not be. Valjean sits back in his chair, and casts his eyes down. The apology has done nothing to unburden him, as why should it? There is no implication that this is anything to do with him. And yet – it seems hard to believe that it cannot be. In some small way, at least. And if he thinks about it honestly, he cannot tell what he thinks about that. Sorrow, yes, if it is true. Exasperation at the man, because there has always been that. Valjean searches for signs of triumph within himself, knowing they are not there but wanting to be sure, needing to test that what he said at the barricade was the whole truth. _There is nothing that I blame you for_…nothing in the life of Fauchelevant, no. Nothing in the life of Madeline. But in the life of 24601? He cannot say that man did not hate Javert, once. Is it excused by the way the hate was not specific to him, but levelled at everything, and everyone, in the world? Perhaps. Unlike the man he contemplates, Valjean is capable of compassion. Less towards himself than everyone else, but a morsel for the sake of his own soul. So – is any part of him glad of this? No. There is nothing but sadness. Javert may have been a thorn in his side, but no man deserves to end up so broken. He should know.

A patient stirs along the ward, crying out and twisting in his sheets. Valjean rises slowly from his chair, but before he can take a step, a nun enters and goes to the man. He watches her mutter over the contorted form, make the sign of the cross, then leave. A minute passes and she returns, bearing a bowl and cloth. He sits again as she soothes the distress away, but does not avert his eyes. When the man is calm, she looks his way; he bows his head to her, and she smiles before leaving the room. The ward is silent once more, and he looks back at the bed he sits next to. Javert has not moved. Valjean looks down at his hands. He has spent so long trying not to look him in the face. It seems…invasive, to take the opportunity to stare. As if it is taking a liberty to examine the man while he is no position to object, or retort. It is impossible to face his fear, and perhaps vanquish it forever, while the other man cannot face him in return.

That supposes, of course, there is anything more about him Javert would care to discover. But the man had a gun on him, and let him go. He had his address, and never came to find him. He can only hope this means that something has changed– but what, he cannot guess. Maybe it is true that he will never find out, but while Javert breathes, it is hard to think of it as a finished chapter.

He sighs, and stands up. 'I will return,' he says, quietly. 'Have no fear.'

As he walks out, he contemplates these words with a frown, because why would Javert have fear of him not returning? Of all the people in the world, surely he would be the least welcome at his bedside. To suppose otherwise is foolishness.

But then, Valjean gets the impression there is no abundance of more suitable volunteers.

###

On the second day, he makes himself stay longer. After thirty minutes have passed in silence, the doctor from the day before comes to him.

'Monsieur, I would not see you troubled. If you leave your address, the hospital can send a boy when there is news. There are always boys looking for sous; it would be no effort, and would save you-' he gestures towards Javert's form, unmoved since yesterday. Valjean looks steadily at the doctor, and raises his eyebrows.

'You would begrudge him company?'

'No, sir. Not at all. But what is he to you? You said just an acquaintance. Few people stand vigil for a person known to them in an inconstant fashion.'

Valjean cannot help but laugh. 'I assure you, monsieur, there is nothing inconstant about Javert.'

The doctor gives a strange look, and steps closer. 'You do understand, sir, that he will never wake? The damage – he should not be alive now.'

'Should that not be cause for hope?'

'In his case, there is none.'

Valjean watches the steady rise and fall of Javert's chest; each breath, though barely moving the sheet, a challenge to the doctor's defeatism. Something inside him says _no_, and reminds him that Javert has never let go of anything in his life. Probably. He cannot claim to know all his past. But it would be consistent with what he does know. 'I disagree, doctor. I know this man, and there is none more tenacious. If there is life to be found, he will find it.'

The doctor is silent. Valjean notices after a moment, and glances up to meet the man's look of confusion. He queries it with an eyebrow, and receives a shake of the head. 'Just that it is a strange thing to say, considering.'

'Considering what?'

'The reason he is here.'

Valjean regards him with what he imagines to be a calm expression. Inside, something twists nervously in his gut. 'He fell into the river, did he not? There was an uprising that night. He may have been pushed. And I understand the Seine is dangerous above where he was found, but surely as he survived the water…'

The doctor is shaking his head. 'Monsieur, his injuries are not at all consistent with being near-drowned. While I would expect broken bones from being buffeted underwater, what we see with him…' he walks to the bedside, and pulls the sheet down before Valjean can stop him. He only has time to think _Javert would hate this,_ before a patch of livid skin is exposed at the chest. It is purple and swollen, with a split like an overripe plum. The inside of Javert spilling out is not unlike soft fruit flesh, and the smell of decay rises in the air. 'He is crushed, monsieur.'

Valjean swallows, and looks away. 'Cover him, please.' And when it is done, 'I don't understand what you are implying.'

The doctor's stare feels hard, and he does not meet it. 'Monsieur…' A break, a breath. 'He was discovered not far from the rapids between the Pont au Change and the Pont Notre-Dame. This much damage is consistent with a fall from height. Perhaps great height. '

The words hang between them, in the space over a man held together by – what? Skin, nothing more. Valjean swallows, his throat dry and thick. 'You are saying he may have been pushed from a bridge.'

The alternative is not something he can reconcile in his thoughts. Not with a man of God. Not with Javert. The doctor shrugs a shoulder, and seems resigned. 'Or he jumped.'

'No.'

A hesitation, and the man looks to the window, the one point of light in this room. 'You know him better than I, monsieur,' he murmurs, and Valjean is grateful that that is that. 'Leave your address with the sisters, please. If there is news in the night, we will send someone. You do not look well, monsieur. A hospital is not safe for you.'

Alone, he sits and watches the floor. His thoughts roil, bubbling to the surface to be swept away by the next. The suspicion aroused, he tries not to think on it. But how can he not? Javert had his address, and did not come. He had been confused by his release at the barricade, and angry, perhaps. He had not fired his gun, even after saying _one more step and you die_. Valjean remembers his expression, remembers the thought he had had. If he stayed, and was taken, Marius would die. If he walked on and made the attempt, perhaps Javert would have shot him. But at least he would have died attempting to save the boy.

There had been more to it, hadn't there? Time has passed; time taken up with Marius' recovery, and plans for the wedding. And while Javert has been an ever-present figure for a large portion of his life, he has only ever embodied the law, and capture. Thinking back on that expression, the man's face was…he does not know. There is scant way to measure. It was not the stoic prison guard of Toulon, and it was not the righteous subordinate of Montreuil sur Mer. Not the police inspector rounding up the Patron-Minette after a blackmail attempt, or the captured man facing death. It was not something he had seen before. But he should have guessed something was wrong. Because while his thoughts had been centred on Marius, he does now remember a detail. Javert's hand had been unsteady. He would not go as far as to say trembling, but the gun had wavered in the air. For a man as precise and exact as this…yes, he should have realised something was wrong.

But, no. This is madness. Valjean shakes his head, and the world swims before his eyes. When they were colleagues, Javert had often said _this is the way to please the Lord_, and similar sentiments, when they had discussed the work to be done in Montreuil sur Mer. Javert held himself to a standard above. He was a man who seemed intent on working his way through life as efficiently as possible, so he could stand before Saint Peter and be welcomed with open arms. He held himself irreproachable, while not seeing that his unblemished police record surely stained his heavenly report through lack of mercy. He belonged to the law, and to God. So no, he cannot believe Javert would damn himself this way. It was a night of madness, and the man had been wearing his uniform. A loose group of students could have sent him over the bridge.

Valjean knows he has a small, dark part of his mind remaining; a part he had hopes of diminishing to nothing before the end of his days, though that looks unlikely now. From that part, he hears his conscience offering a truth. That it is easier to believe Javert did not commit this sin, because then it would mean he, Valjean, did not drive him to it. Never mind that the evidence of the man's character points away from suicide. To be sure, he must find evidence. If the man was the victim of a grievous assault, he can pray him into the afterlife, and sit with him as he goes. If he was not, then – his thoughts flounder. What can he do? Amends must be made. But he does not know of any family, or friends. He does not know the man's Christian name, or if he has one. He knows nothing of him, beyond that hasty confession of his birth during a fight. Valjean is ashamed to think, now, that he has not given the information a second thought in the years since. Javert has only ever been one thing to him, and it was not a man.

He stands, and looks at him lying there. The doctor's exposure of his chest has left the nightshirt slightly opened. He hesitates, then reaches over to make the cloth straight again. If nothing else, he knows Javert would appreciate a tidy appearance.

'It seems the Lord is not done with us yet.' He tilts his head, and wonders if the man's mouth was open quite that far an hour ago. There seems more space between his lips, but perhaps it is just the change in viewing angle. 'I may be later tomorrow, but I will come.'

He waits for a response that cannot come, simply because it seems respectful to treat the man as though he were whole. A span of heartbeats, and he inclines his head. 'Until then.'

He leaves his address with the sisters, and strict instructions to provide word at once of even the slightest change. At home, he takes some bread and water with a little cheese. Tomorrow may require strength, and it would not do to lose too much of it now.


	2. Chapter II

The heat of summer lies thick on the Paris air, wet and heavy, pressing down without mercy. It is a silent weight; it sinks between the buildings, and winds slowly through the streets, consuming all in its path. At the city walls, it tucks in like a sleeping cat, its tail folding around to make a circle from which it is impossible to escape. Valjean, accustomed to staying inside during daylight – once by necessity, now by habit – feels as though the sun sucks all the moisture from his body, then forces him to walk through it. Breathing should not be such a labour, nor a simple walk. But the air slips between layers of cloth and nestles there, adding weight to each step. He would rather stay in his stone-cooled apartment, and not subject himself to the pain. But Cosette must go to Marius. And now, he must go to Javert.

But first, the necessities. He has been preparing for this since he left the hospital yesterday. His rational mind tells him that to enter a police station will not mean instant denouncement and arrest. He reminds himself that Jean Valjean is dead in the eyes of the law. But he also knows there is no way to be sure of what Javert did when he was freed from the barricade. He had made it clear he would not forget his pursuit. Maybe he filed a report in the hours they were apart. _You will still answer to me, Jean Valjean_. Now, away from the heat of the situation, that seems a strange choice of words. Does Valjean answer to Javert, or the law? Perhaps the hunt became personal for the man. It would not be a surprise. Or maybe Javert and the law are one and the same. Either way, he prays for God's protection as he enters the prefecture, and it gives him strength. Even if the worst should happen, it is no more than he has managed to evade all these years. If God wills his return to Toulon, then so it must be. But he cannot leave Javert to die without at least attempting to understand the circumstances.

He walks tall, and without hesitation. His stomach quails, but he does not loiter outside, or in the doorway. That might be more damning than being bold, and it is not so hard to remember the demeanour of Monsieur Madeleine, his straight back and air of righteousness.

The building offers relief from the sun's glare, with its cavernous interior and high windows that keep the heat above. The marble columns draw the eye upwards, and Valjean finds himself standing and staring to the ceiling, where the Lady Justice looks down from on high. She is painted in gold, reflected in a sunbeam that makes her shine like the stars. He can make out the bandage over her eyes, and it is that that makes him drop his gaze. Justice is blind, indeed. He thinks of Javert, and then shakes his head to remove the thought. It is not fair to make that connection. He knows so little of the man, or how he came to be the way he is.

'Does monsieur require assistance?'

Valjean is pulled from his musing, and nods as he removes his hat. The man behind the desk is of middle-age, and in the uniform of a sergeant. His smile is thin, but polite, and Valjean returns it in kind. 'I hope so, monsieur. I have come to enquire after one of your officers. I don't know if he works from this building, but thought it the best place to start.'

The sergeant's eyes narrow as he speaks. Perhaps it is unusual for civilians to ask after policemen. Valjean maintains his outward calm, but feels his stomach tighten.

'The nature of your enquiry, sir?'

'We were acquainted, years ago. He has been gravely injured, and I happened across him again. The doctors know of no family, so I took it upon myself to ask on his behalf.'

The sergeant's demeanour relaxes, and the smile is perhaps a little more genuine this time. 'Was it during that damned – begging your pardon, sir – that damned foolishness with the students?'

'It was.'

The man nods. 'Many officers were injured that night, though this is the first such enquiry I've had to deal with. Your name, sir?'

'Fauchelevent.'

'And the officer in question?' The sergeant reaches for a thick ledger on a desk behind him. Valjean wonders, briefly, whether no one enquires after the police because they do not tend towards family life, or because they do, and their wives and children already know their fates.

'Inspector Javert.'

The man stops dead. The heavy frontispiece of the ledger remains suspended upright in his hand; the book half-open, half-closed. Then he lets it drop. It falls with a heavy _thud_. 'Javert?'

'Yes.'

The nerves are crawling back up Valjean's centre. The sergeant stares at him, eyes narrowed once more. Then he shakes his head, and says, 'he no longer works here.'

'Oh?' Valjean forces himself to look only mildly interested, and not to frown. 'You know him, then?'

'Oh, everybody knows Javert. He practically lived here. A good policeman, if not the most personable of colleagues.'

So much for finding friends. 'I apologise, sergeant. I find myself confused.' Not least because if everyone knows Javert, why has he not had a single visitor at the hospital? 'I believe I saw him on the day of June sixth, and he was certainly an Inspector then. His doctor told me he was brought to the hospital the day after. How could he no longer work here during that short space of time?'

The answer comes as though he is a small child, to whom the sergeant must explain matters clearly. Even before he finishes speaking, Valjean makes the jump to the truth of it, feels it stealing over his skin and turning him cold in its wake. 'Because, monsieur, he resigned his post.'

'Javert resigned.' He says it to himself, but the man nods anyway.

'He left a note, you see. Which is why everyone knows he has no intention of returning. The ones in charge don't like being told how the service should be run. But the word got out of what he said, because the Prefect's staff let it slip to someone. And there aren't many secrets in the police, sir.'

Valjean's fingers are tight around the brim of his hat, and he thinks he should loosen them, in case he arouses suspicion. But he cannot seem to make them work. 'I do see, yes.'

The sergeant recalls something, and frowns. 'You say he's gravely injured? I don't understand that. He was seen at the Place du Chatelet that night. That's where he wrote the letter. If he was hurt, it must have been after that – but then, he'd still have been wearing uniform, I suppose, and certain types do take exception to it when feelings are running high. How did you find him?'

Valjean spreads his hands an inch or two, and tries for another smile. 'I was at the hospital, and saw him by chance. The hand of fate, nothing more.'

It is a lie, and one he asks silent forgiveness for. The sergeant seems to think nothing of it, and puts the ledger back where he got it from. 'Well, I'm sorry for him. Not an easy man to know, but devoted to the work.'

'Might he have any friends who would wish to see him? I understand his prospects are-' it is hard to say. He still cannot believe it himself, though he knows it must be true, '-not good.'

'I don't know.' The sergeant looks uncomfortable. 'He wasn't…well. I can ask. He had a patron, I understand. There should be someone who knows more about him. Where is he? I'll forward the information.'

Valjean tells him, and replaces his hat on his head. His fingers ache with the effort of loosening on the brim. When he walks back out into the heat of the morning, he barely feels it. Instead, his skin bleeds droplets of cold sweat, beading like tears on his forehead.

Javert resigned. Which means, Javert jumped. It is the only conclusion he can draw, because surely nothing but death would separate the man from his duty. So something happened to cause it, and perhaps it is hubris to think anything he, Valjean, did that night could cause a man to take such extreme measures – but in his heart, he feels it to be true.

Valjean stands by the door of the prefecture, eyes closed, mouth moving in prayer. _Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me_. But for once, there is no relief in asking. Perhaps his request is directed at the wrong being.

He turns on his heel, in the direction of the hospital. This time, walking is easier. There may not be much time, and certainly not enough to think too long about what he is doing, and why he is doing it.

###

As he steps into the room, he notices two things. Three beds are empty; stripped and scrubbed. And while the first four patients are exactly as they were the day before, the second half of the room is in disarray.

Valjean steps cautiously, so as not to disturb those sleeping to their deaths. And also because there are people moving at the end of the room, shapes visible through the fine lace curtains that offer a semblance of privacy. Perhaps one of the other men has awoken. Perhaps they are bathing Javert, or seeing to his dressings. The thought of it makes him recoil, because he knows he would struggle to look the man in the face again, if he saw him that exposed. And then he turns his head, a sharp jerk to the side, to banish the thought of _why_ he cannot endure the thought of such vulnerability. It is only yesterday he faced the knowledge that he has never seen Javert as a man, so perhaps it is still very soon. But…he realises his feet have brought him to a halt. A nun emerges from behind the curtain, carrying a bowl half full of blood, and bandages steeped in red. He stands aside to let her pass, and despite her outward calm, there is tension at the corner of her lips.

'Sister?'

She shakes her head, just once, and moves on. Valjean feels his mouth open, even as his stomach falls to his boots. 'He is not…?'

But she is gone, and he faces forward. One of the figures is a man, and he is speaking urgently in hushed tones. Valjean straightens his shoulders, and walks on.

'Sister, hold him. He must be still. He must…no, please, I beg you monsieur, you must listen…'

He walks faster, striding as if he were young again. The doctor's voice becomes clearer, the scene more agitated.

'We must bind him, or there is no…_please_, monsieur, try to hear me…'

There is a crash, and Valjean can hear, under the doctor's frantic tone, a low rumble that gets louder the closer he comes. It is unlike anything he has heard in so long, it takes a moment to remember why it resonates. And then it comes back, and breaks over him like a wash of sea-salt water on a winter's day; it is the sound of torment, that he has not heard since Toulon. It is the uncontrolled moan of a body that cannot contain its pain; the raw, unchecked utterance of someone locked in a world of agony, and unable to articulate more than an animal. He remembers that sound from the dark of the galleys, when the groans would rise through the night, and they would all close their ears and try not to hear. It was a relief when the stench of shit became fresh and strong, because it meant the body was letting go, and the noise would soon be over. He lost count of the amount of times he woke to see someone dead on their plank. One night, it was the man above him. He spent the night wishing he were dying too, and woke at dawn with the man's final bowel movement dripping onto his smock.

There is no such smell here. Only blood, and something almost sweet. He forces his eyes open, and steps inside the curtain.

Javert is awake, and mostly dead. The doctor is pressed over his chest, trying to stop him from struggling. Two nuns attempt to bind his arms to the bedframe, but he is thrashing feebly, and there is slick blood on one wrist, a match in colour to the glistening wound exposed on his shoulder. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth open as he emits that sound. It is the keen of a trapped beast, and Valjean feels it vibrate through him, from the soles of his boots all the way to his clamp around his heart.

'Can I help?'

The doctor startles, but only for an instant. 'Yes! He must be still, or he will pierce something more inside. Quick, now!'

Valjean tosses his hat aside, and moves to the opposite side of the bed. He stretches his hands down, but hesitates; he does not know where to hold, or what might cause more hurt. But the doctor tuts, and snaps at him, 'anywhere, man! In the name of God, hold him.'

Javert's skin is wet and cold, sweat as much as blood. But it is not that which turns his stomach. It is the feel of his heart, thundering inside him, thumping against the bits still holding him together. It is raw, and could not be more obvious even if the chest was open all the way. He feels as if it were; as if he is standing here, watching Javert's heart pump, open and exposed, furious in its constant beat.

'Good. _Good._ Tighter, monsieur. You cannot hurt him more than he is hurting himself.' The doctor sounds relieved, and there is a small sound, almost a sob, from one of the nuns. They are tying him now, and Valjean has to struggle not to pull away from how wrong this is, for him to have his hands on Javert's body.

'How long as he been awake?'

'An hour, maybe more. It came suddenly. We were not prepared. He has broken his ribs again, I think.'

The doctor is flushed and sweaty, and looks far younger than he did the day before. He looks like a man who has been proved wrong, and feels ashamed of it. Valjean would offer words of condolence, but he can only think of what is under his hands. The essence of Javert, fighting to carry on. 'Have you given him something for the pain? Has he said any words?'

'No. Yes.' The doctor shakes his head. 'I am afraid he will choke if I give him laudanum before he is eased. And he said something at first, but then something broke, and…monsieur, he was not supposed to recover.'

'He isn't recovered.' Javert's hands are tied to the bed, and still he writhes. The heavy splints on his legs look as though they keep him anchored, but all the vital organs are inches away from Valjean's palms, and the man will not be still. 'Get the laudanum. I will hold him.'

The man nods, and relinquishes his grip. Javert moves quicker than he should be able to, twists in the sheets and then lets out a cry that rips the air in two. Valjean chokes in fear, and presses down hard. His own heart is hammering, and he feels sweat rolling down his face, wetting the hair next to his ears. 'Javert. Javert, please. Hear me. You must stop. I know it hurts, but you must…you must be still, for once in your life.'

The noise from his mouth does not cease, and he does not stop moving. But an eyelid flickers, and Valjean can only pray it means he has heard. 'Listen to me, Javert. The doctor is getting you something for the pain. Please, man. You can be well. But you must stop.'

He has no idea whether the words make sense to him. Probably not, because he is not answering the plea. But maybe the noise is less. Valjean can hear the rattling of his breath in his chest. It gutters and creaks out of him, wheezes from his nose. When his mouth falls open, blood drops from his lips, as though it has been trapped inside for quite some time. It is dark, too dark, almost black. Valjean knows it is the sign of internal damage, and starts to pray. His eyes close as he whispers, trying to block the sound of death on the approach. _Please Lord, take him in peace. Let him not suffer this, let him_…

'Valjean.'

He opens his eyes. Javert is watching him from beneath lids barely open. His mouth is red, and his fingers claw at the sheets. But through the moans still coming, and the death rattle from his throat, his voice is nothing but fury. 'Valjean.'

'It is I. Javert, please. The doctor-'

'You…' He breaks off, and his eyes twist close. Another cry that burns through Valjean's ear, and the body tenses tight enough that it feels like it may burst. But the heart still thumps under his hands, and he is aware again of the heat of him. If he weren't dying, he might think his body more alive than he has ever seen it. But surely it is only the desperation of death throes.

'Do not talk. Do not weaken yourself.'

Incredibly, something comes that is close to a laugh. Or maybe it is another cry; Javert cannot be in his senses. But the eyes crack open again, and suddenly he is trying to lean up. Valjean realises they are only inches apart, and all he can see is the black depths of Javert's blood-blown eyes. He speaks, and the desperation is made worse only by the utter contempt in his broken tone.

'Where is your mercy now, Jean Valjean?' he says, and blood spits from between his teeth, melts into the saliva dripping down his chin. '_Kill me._'

Valjean freezes, his gaze locked to the pleading agony, fear gripping his gut from the hate this man can hold. But he shakes his head; a slow, transfixed swivel from side to side, as his whole being constricts in sorrow. 'I can't.'

Javert is silent for one blessed minute. And then his face crumples into something inhuman, as his body is wracked again. Another howl, and Valjean feels tears drop down his cheeks. He is powerless, and if he were a good man, surely he would be able to grant his request. No man deserves this. But he cannot do it, cannot even think about it.

There are hands at his shoulders. He sags back in relief as the doctor takes his place, and starts to drip half a bottle laudanum into Javert's mouth. Valjean staggers until his back hits the wall, and it is a long moment of struggle to fill his lungs entirely. All he can smell is blood, all he can hear is the heartfelt plea, the undercurrent of hate under the request. _Kill me_. But no, he cannot. He cannot. He should be able to, but he cannot.

###

Half an hour later, and Javert's blood is dried, and cracking in flakes off Valjean's waistcoat. The man is, mercifully, asleep. He watches him dully, his eyes aching with heat, and tears, and exhaustion.

'Monsieur, you should leave. He will sleep through the night.'

The doctor looks as tired as he feels. His faith in him is no longer strong, but he does not contradict his words. It seems incredible that Javert is still breathing at all, that his body hadn't flown apart under the onslaught. 'Do you still think he will die?'

'Yes.' But there is hesitation in the voice. 'It is likely. But I think…he has more chance than he had this morning.'

There is a chance. It is something, though Valjean wonders whether it is merciful to pray for it now. He lets the silence be for a moment, and flexes his fingers. They are sticky with congealed blood, yet he cannot muster the energy to move and clean them. 'What is your name?'

'Joly.'

'Joly?'

'Yes.'

Valjean glances up. There is something about the jaw, perhaps. Around the eyes. He cannot be certain. 'Yesterday, you seemed not to care whether he survived. Today, I think, you do.'

The young man seems caught. He rocks back and forth on the spot, as though debating which words would be best to say. Eventually, his tone suggests he has chosen the truth. 'He was wearing a uniform when he was brought here. It was the night of the barricades.'

'Yes.'

'I had a brother.' Joly waves a hand, as if it is of no consequence. Or perhaps he does not want to go into detail about a revolutionary sibling. 'He also died that night. But it is not…' Whatever he had thought of saying, the impulse is gone. '…I thought this man was dead. Now I see he is not, and I am unsure as to whether…'

Valjean looks at his hands. So much blood still there. Javert, all over him. 'I'm sure you did what you thought best, monsieur. But now we know more. I must insist you do all in your power for him.'

'Of course. Of course, sir. And I thank you for your assistance today. Without you, I fear he would not now be with us.'

He cannot decide if that is a good thing, or not. What is mercy, here? But he is too tired to decide, and the room too warm with Javert's iron blood. 'I will stay with him. Please, no more talk of sending messengers to me. I will stay.'

Joly looks to protest, but when Valjean meets his eyes, he closes his mouth. 'I will leave you with him, then. Please call if he wakens.'

The room seems so much quieter than even the silence of yesterday. There are less men breathing in here, that is true. But Valjean knows it is simply the absence of Javert's fight, temporarily put to sleep as it is. It reminds him of the years he thought he was safe from the man. It was a pretence at peace, because did he not always know that Javert would find him eventually? And it is a pretence now, because Valjean knows, as he used to, that the man will come again.

But this time, it is not a fearful thing. It is not something he dreads, but something he wants. The reasons for that can be divined later. For now, he is happy to accept that no, he does not wish Javert gone. And he will do all he can to ensure his wellbeing.


	3. Chapter III

It is an uncomfortable night. He spends most of it lying awake, listening to the breathing from the beds around him. He glances across at Javert from time to time, but again, is assailed by the feeling of how unfair it is to see him too closely. So he looks to the ceiling or out of the window, and tries to fathom what to do next.

A couple of hours before dawn, he rises and makes his way to the entrance hall. There is a writing stand; he pens a note to Cosette, and finds a gamin outside who is willing to run with it. He gives the boy extra money to find somewhere decent to sleep the next night, and watches him until he rounds the corner.

And then he is in the street, alone. The stars are dimmed in the summer warmth. Half the sky is obscured by clouds, or smoke; what few can be seen are hazy, on the verge of being smothered by the ether. He directs his gaze downwards. Religion aside, he has always found answers to practical problems rooted in the ground; prayers, he will send to the sky, but work needs to be done with human hands. And he has always thought better while moving, so he walks now, glad of the solidity of uneven stones beneath his feet.

Lying in the dark, it had seemed clear. The initial problem is not as he thought it was when he first found Javert. It is not how to get him well; or at least, not just that. From what he witnessed the afternoon before, the question is whether he _should_ get well. Whether an attempt can even be made, or whether it would be kinder to let him slip away, eased by laudanum. It seems to be what he wants – but even then, things are not simple. Javert tried to kill himself. It is a sin; it is _the_ sin, and if he dies as a result of the attempt, even days later, he will meet the same fate. So there is an obligation to see that he does not die. To give him time to come to his senses, and right his wrong. It would be mercy for the soul, but cruelty for the body – Javert has never seemed to care about physical pain, but is that enough to base a decision on? And who is he, Jean Valjean, to try and make it? It cannot be said he is impartial. If Javert's attempt had anything to do with his actions at the barricade – well, whose soul is in danger of taint, here? He did not give a second's thought to the consequences of mercy, or whether he had the right to wield it in the way he had.

Valjean runs a hand over his face, places his back to the wall, and leans his head on the stonework. He does not know for sure that Javert jumped. It should be remembered. If he did, he does not know why, or if it was to do with him, no matter how much he suspects it. One wavering gun, one unexpected reprieve, is not proof of anything. Javert has always been an unusual man, so might there not be something else that caused this? And in the end, the decision cannot be taken from the man himself – unless he is not capable. Or if it is for his own good.

He sighs, and lets fatigue pull his eyelids closed. He should eat something, probably, but it is still early. Still dark, though the horizon starts to brighten on one edge. He utters a silent prayer for guidance; when he opens his eyes, he is still alone on the street, and no answers are forthcoming.

#

Dawn, and Javert's eyes are open. His face is grey and rigid, and he will not speak. Valjean watches his hands fist in the sheets, and quails inside. He cannot fathom the pain he must be in, or the will it must take to not cry out as he did yesterday. It strikes him that he may be making this more difficult, that the control may be because the man does not want to show weakness in front of an old adversary. If that is what they were, then. He does not know what they are now.

He picks up the half-filled bottle of laudanum. 'I do not know how much to give. I will fetch the doctor.'

'No. I do not-'

Javert's fingers are as white as the linen they grasp. Valjean shakes his head. 'You cannot lie in pain. You will not recover.'

'Good.'

He will say nothing more. Valjean fetches the doctor. The drug is given without the luxury of option; he watches as it is forced into Javert's mouth, and wants to shout that _no_, that is not just. He stays silent instead. Javert's eyes are squeezed shut, face turned away as the thing is done. They remain closed afterwards, but Valjean can no longer look.

When he is asleep again, he leaves to take some air. He is too disturbed to eat now, and the heat of the day saps everything but the dull ache of sickness in his belly.

#

'You should not be here, monsieur.'

The hospital has a small garden. He has found a stone seat next to an old fountain. There is little soothing about a trickle of water into a stagnant pool, but at least it is not inside. 'Should I not?'

'You cannot help him.'

'I think you are wrong. And if I do not – if I cannot – there is no one else who will try. I will not leave him.'

Joly sighs, and sits on the parapet, unmindful of the sludge on the damp stone. He is unkempt; an angular man without any fat on him, wrapped in rumpled clothes, and topped with hair spiked from sweaty fingers worked through it. 'I do not think he is simply an acquaintance, as you said. Well, it is your business; I doubt your relationship, whatever it is, can have any bearing on what happens to him.'

'Then what does it matter if I stay?'

'Because I may be wrong. And if he doesn't want you here, it may make things worse. Of course-' Joly looks away, fiddling the edge of his waistcoat between his fingertips. '-you may spur him to life. I have seen it before. It is not for him I saying this – his fate is largely in the hands of God. But you, monsieur – a hospital can make the healthy unwell, and you are pale.'

'I cannot sleep, that is all. His pain is distressing.' The young doctor's eyebrows quirk; if there is an insinuation there, Valjean does not want to know about it. 'I do not think you should force laudanum down his throat. Even if it is best. He is a stalwart man, who knows his own mind.'

'You would let that mind break with pain? Some might call that cruelty, monsieur.'

'He may break if control is taken away.' Valjean cannot voice how he knows this could be true. 'Though I do not say for sure. I only know – I wish him to be treated with respect. He is a good man. But I do not know what is best.'

Joly looks as though he does not know how to interpret this; it is well, as Valjean is sure he does not either. But after a moment; 'Monsieur, I will speak plain. It seems clear to me, if not to you, that his fall was not an accident. Policeman or not, the students involved in the uprising…well, they would not indiscriminately throw a man off a bridge. At least, some of them would not. I know that. I-'

For a moment, he does not look like a harried and tired professional, but a child in oversized clothes, carrying a world of worry on his shoulders. Valjean feels his heart go out to him, but the man coughs and moves his head, and the illusion is gone. 'So what you say about him knowing his own mind – I must respectfully disagree. A man who does this is not thinking clearly. And so, his care must be placed in the hands of those who have his interests at heart.'

He cannot help a smile. 'And what are your interests, doctor? You would see him healed?'

'If it is possible, of course.'

'Even if it is not what he wants? Even if it consigns him to years of agony? Even if he is left a cripple?'

Joly spreads his hands. 'I am a doctor. If there is no hope for him at all, then these questions are moot. We may do our best, and he may still die. We may fix him, and he could choose to walk from here and return straight to the bridge. That cannot be my concern; I can only treat the injuries presented. The rest is up to him. Or, any other interested party who has influence over him.'

'No one has influence over Javert, doctor. Of this, I can assure you with my whole heart.' He sighs, and looks down at his hands. 'You will treat him regardless, then. In that case, I must insist he sees a surgeon. The best in Paris, if it can be arranged – I will cover all expense. You are busy, and you are young; I do not mean to cause offence, but if treatment is to be administered, it must be the best there can be.'

'I am not offended. It is as you say – he needs more than I can give. And I am not a surgeon yet, though I will be.' Joly shrugs, and stands. His face may even convey relief, but what does it matter? 'Perhaps I will be allowed to assist…but that is of small concern. I will send a letter immediately, and we will see what can be done.'

'Thank you.' He stands too, and smiles again. 'I will say it twice; thank you. Javert will likely never say it, so there; in this, I will dare to speak for him.'

A laugh, then. 'I think he will not thank you for that, but never mind. I will not tell him.'

#

The nuns have been tending to Javert while he was outside. His sheets are clean, he is bathed and in new bandages, and looks better for it. He has not been shaved in some time, and his beard is ragged, but there is no longer blood dried in it. If only his face were visible, it would be possible to believe he was a whole man. Valjean settles into the chair next to the bed. All is quiet.

'You are still here.'

'Yes. And I will not leave.'

Javert opens his eyes. They are unfocused and soft, the usual piercing stare thawed by drugs. 'Another act of mercy, Valjean? Or has the convict come to see his last jailer removed?'

'I don't understand.'

'Either way, you are seeing me from this world. I suppose it does not matter if your intentions are kind, or if they are selfish. Though, if it is the latter, you need not trouble yourself. Who would I tell of you?'

'I am not interested in who you tell, Javert. Tell the world, if you wish. I was not lying when I gave you my address, and I already considered myself your prisoner. So do not die with that in mind; better yet, do not die at all.'

Javert's mouth opens and his head moves an inch to the side. Valjean realises he is trying to laugh, but no sound comes out. It is a strangely heart-breaking sight, like watching an old man tell a joke that no one else can understand. 'It is too late for that.'

'It does not have to be, maybe. There is a surgeon coming. We will see what he says.'

'A surgeon?' A note of confusion in the soft tone, and it is a long moment before Javert finds more words. 'Ah. Saint Valjean wishes redemption. Inevitable in the circumstances, I suppose.'

'Why do you say that?' He leans forward, a sharp movement in the utter stillness of the room. 'Why do you say that, Javert? What has this to do with me? Is it because – you cannot have done this because I freed you, surely. It is madness.'

He would give anything for it not to be so. But Javert's face says everything; even in this state, everything in his mind is written on it. 'But what else would it be? You have dogged me almost my entire life, Valjean. Even before I realised it, when you were just a number. I have lived, and worked, and would barely spare you a thought. Until there you'd be. And now, it is inevitable. If anyone could deny me, it would be you.'

'Deny you? I did not. I told you to arrest me. I accepted it; I accept it now! In the name of everything Holy, Javert, how have I denied you anything?'

The blue gaze is almost pitying, even though he is clearly struggling to stay awake. 'All my life. I would have been irreproachable. I worked to…ah, but it is too late now. I failed at the last; so be it. Let Satan take me, it cannot be worse than this.'

'_No._ It will not be. You can still live, Javert. You can put this right, and I will help you if I can, and if you will accept it.'

'But why would I? You…' a weak cough, and a grimace of pain. There is a spot of blood forming at the corner of his lips, and moisture in the sunken pools of his eyes. 'All you had to do was let me be killed. But you could not allow it. Once a thief, forever a thief. I said it; I mean it. This time it is my soul for yours; well then, I hope you make use of your time. You have eternity to pass in Heaven, and you will see me no more. Freedom, Valjean, and you only had to damn one man to get it.'

He pulls back as Javert speaks, horror stealing over him like a guard's footsteps in the dark. 'It was not like that. It wasn't, I swear it. I did not know you would do this. How could I? If I had, I would never had let you. You cannot lay this at my door, any more than I can lay my years in hiding at yours.'

'Listen to yourself. Many others would do exactly that. Blame the law for chasing the criminal, because they do not have peace – but not you. You say you deserve what you lived, and so you did. So perhaps you are right; no, you are right. And I will follow your example. I deserve this, for it is what I chose. Let me die, Valjean. I will not ask you to help. I am already exiled from God for trying, so there is no help now.'

'You are wrong. God does not exile - Javert, you must listen. Do not give up, I implore you. Ja-'

But the man is sleeping. He cannot help himself; he reaches for his neck, and presses two fingers at the pulse point. The heart beats back at him, steady as a metronome, and the relief is so strong it halts his breath. A moment later, and mortification takes its place. So, it is confirmed. Javert tried to kill himself, and it was because of his actions. He sits back, and tries to collect his reeling thoughts.

He finds there is nothing to think over. The man must not be allowed to die. Not while he thinks the things he does; not believing that God will not take him now. This is a fault caused by the hands of Jean Valjean, so it is something that Jean Valjean must correct. But how, he has no idea. He cannot pray Javert into Heaven; the man must seek redemption himself, and mean it with his heart – a heart he has only seen a glimpse of once, in all these years. He suspects the man himself would deny having one.

He does not know how to do this. But he must find a way. He relinquished his freedom once, to save an innocent man from the galleys – what will he give to save a damned man's soul? The answer is clear; whatever he must. All of it, everything, anything he has left.


End file.
